


Jeepers Creepers

by Sorrel



Series: Dogs of War [3]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Ethically Dubious Spycraft, F/M, Gen, outsider pov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-01-28 00:18:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12593816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sorrel/pseuds/Sorrel
Summary: What do you do when nearly three years of intelligence work strolls through your front gate like they've got nothing to lose?  Trick question: a good spy knows how to assess a situation, and a better spy can turn it to their advantage.  Deacon's always been a very, very good spy, and if Operation Wanderer is just going to wander right into his grasp, well.  He's never been one to give up easy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AKA, my "goddamnit, Deacon" fic. This is a companion story to [Cry Havoc](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5305667?view_full_work=true), and will probably make the most sense if you've read that first. For those following along at home, this chapter takes place a little over a week before the beginning of Cry Havoc.

Piper's arguing with McDonough: must be Thursday.

Deacon's been working this gig for barely a month, and he's already seen Diamond City's two most prominent citizens arguing loudly in public three separate times. This makes for the fourth, though the locale is only dubiously public; the only witnesses are him, poor Danny Sullivan, and the drifter that followed Piper through the gate. Some 'big trader from Quincy,' huh, Piper. Danny's lucky he hasn't heard about the massacre down that way, which Piper obviously hasn't either, or she might've picked a different settlement. Too busy chasing ghosts behind the Wall to pay attention to what's going on outside of it.

But then, isn't that always the way?

"You- you devious, _rabble-rousing_ slanderer-"

Deacon tunes out the familiar sound of ranting and focuses on the drifter, who at least has the advantage of novelty. She's on the taller side for a woman, maybe about five-nine; enough that she'd be able to look him in the eye without too much trouble, and he's no slouch. (Except for being a slouch in the literal sense, which he is, usually, because what kinda spy wants to be remembered for being the tall guy? Not the live kind, that's for sure.) She's wearing some kind of patched-up dark leather coat, belted loosely over equally dark clothes that have seen better days, and there's a pair of sunglasses folded up and tucked into the open collar of her shirt, like she was wearing them until the fog hit and chased away the bright morning sun. She's got a rifle strapped in behind her pack—no other visible weapons, but there's something in the way she stands that leads him to believe that she's got a pistol holstered at the small of her back.

Deacon peers a little closer. What kind of drifter goes out of their way to _hide_ the weapons they're carrying? Out on the road, you generally want to look as dangerous as possible, just in case someone gets the wrong idea.

"Why don't we ask the newcomer?" Piper demands, turning and cutting across Deacon's musings with one sharp look. "You support the news? 'Cause the Mayor's threatening to throw free speech in the _dumpster._ "

The drifter gives one slow blink before allowing herself to answer; if she's discomfited to be so suddenly thrust between the two of them, she doesn't show it. "This really isn't any of my business."

"Oh, I didn't mean to bring you into this argument, miss," McDonough simpers, ostentatiously adjusting his tie. "No, no, no… You look like Diamond City material! Welcome, to the great green jewel of the Commonwealth! Safe. Happy. A fine place to come, spend your money, settle down. Don't let this muckraker here tell you otherwise, alright?"

The drifter tilts her head. "I'm sure your city's a great place." If there's a soft thread of sarcasm in her voice, McDonough doesn't seem to notice—but Piper does.

"Yeah, greatest house of cards in the Commonwealth… until the wind blows."

McDonough throws up his hands in exasperation. Deacon's seen a lot of people resort to that, when it comes to Piper Wright.

"Now," he says, very firmly turning his attention back to the drifter, "was there anything in particular you, ah, came to our city for? Trade, perhaps? We have the finest market anywhere in the Commonwealth!"

For just a moment, Deacon can see the calculation in the drifter's face as clear as day.

"Who would I talk to," she says, after a moment, "about finding a missing person?"

Deacon's radio crackles—the mystery shitter has struck again, and here's him stuck on gate duty and unavailable to help with cleaning, oh darn—and he misses the rest of the conversation. Which is a real shame, 'cause he's sure it was a doozy. Stuck in between Piper Wright and Mayor McDonough is a little less 'eye of the hurricane' and a lot more of the proverbial unstoppable force meeting the proverbial immovable object, and lesser creatures than she have gotten squished in the blast. 

She doesn't _seem_ squished, when she finally extricates herself after a murmured tête-à-tête with the good reporter; she seems at worst mildly bemused, like watching august city leadership damn near getting into a slapfight with the fourth estate is just another blip in her day. _Cool as a cucumber,_ he thinks, watching her saunter up to the security desk. _Wonder where she picked that up._

Here for a missing persons case, huh? She's not from Goodneighbor; he'd definitely remember those scars, or that bright red hair. And if she's not from Goodneighbor and she's not from the Great Green Jewel, then she's gotta be from one of the outer settlements. But why would someone like that come in from the cold just to look for a detective? Valentine mostly tracks runaway kids, straying spouses, addicts gone to Goodneighbor for a fix. Homesteaders handle that kinda thing themselves.

Unless it was the Institute, of course. That's the sort of thing that might drive a homestead to send their best gun up to the city to get a little outside assistance. Deacon hasn't _heard_ about any disappearances in the last few months, but reports like that take time to make their way up the chain to him.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he says, when she would brush past the desk towards the gate. He holds out his hand. "All non-citizens are searched on entry. Mayor's orders."

The drifter—or whoever she is—tilts her head to the side, eyeing him with the same seemingly-mild curiosity she used on McDonough earlier. The motion sends a stray lock of hair sliding across the white splotches splashed across her cheek, drawing his eye. Probably some kind of birthmark, Deacon's got to figure, though it might be cryo treatment for a bad rad burn. But who could afford _that,_ and not have the caps for stimpaks to regrow that chewed-up right ear? Another mystery to add to the list.

"Well, if it's a requirement," she sighs, though her tone is too light to hold any real annoyance. Her mouth is twisted in a moue of pique, but her eyes are cold and flat. Calculating. "Who am I to argue?"

Security-Deacon remains unmoved; Security-Deacon wouldn't have noticed the look on her face, or known enough to worry over it if he did. Security-Deacon's a simple, simple man. "Of course, ma'am."

She slides the pack from her shoulders and drops it to the counter with a substantial _thump_ and even opens up the buckles for him, ostentatiously cooperative. She drops him a wink and drifts down to the other end of the counter, engaging Danny with a flash of a smile and a friendly hello. Deacon keeps half his attention on her as he opens up the pack, listening to her apologize for Piper's deception with a sweet-tongued sincerity that has him biting back a frown. The whiplash shift from that dead-eyed calculation to honeyed charm would be disconcerting in anyone, much less a well-armed stranger that managed to escape from Piper and McDonough's clutches unscathed.

A _very_ well-armed stranger, he thinks, going through her pack. (Bless McDonough and his security crackdowns; Deacon's gotten three new leads in just the last two days.) Whatever pistol she has holstered under her coat is the least of it; inside her pack she's got good leather armor, stained dark and oiled well enough that it won't creak when she moves, and a bandolier full of way more ammo than any settlement guard would need to carry. There's a jumble of weapon mods and scrap parts at the top of her pack—presumably to sell her 'scavver' look when she hits the markets—but underneath of it she has a _very_ nice sawed-off, a combat knife with a hilt wrapped in tape like any waster's boot knife, a stun baton…

Stun baton.

He runs his fingers over the battery pack at the hilt. Institute make, originally. He'd know that shape in his sleep. But there's scratch marks along the casing: someone's been fiddling with it since then. Institute agents don't modify their supplied equipment; they either don't know how or wouldn't dare. Which means that she, or someone, must've taken it from the cold dead hands of a Gen 2. Just like her combat knife, which has the acid-etched marks at the bottom of the blade used by one of the big raider bands up by Lexington. A kill count. He's pretty sure it wasn't hers.

He hears her chatter winding down with one ear and hastens to put her things back the way he found them, jumbling the scav along the top like all he did was paw through it for valuables before he buckled it back up. But she still looks at him when she holds out her hand for her pack, that same flat calculation back in her green eyes. He knows that look; he's seen it often enough in the mirror. It's a look that says, _what kind of lie do I have to tell to get away with this?_

"There a problem, officer?"

Fucking Christ, how the _hell_ has someone like her escaped his notice? He thought he knew all of the players in the Commonwealth, and he would have heard if any new mercs came in with one of the caravans. People in the Commonwealth don't just appear out of thin air. _Usually kinda the opposite,_ he thinks, bleakly amused, and then goes very still. There's _one_ place she could have come from. One place he doesn't have eyes or ears, not after Des shut down Project Tea Party last year.

_No,_ he thinks, blankly. _No fucking way._

"No problem, miss," he says gruffly, and passes it back to her. "Welcome to the, uh, Great Green Jewel. You'll totally love it here."

"Appreciate it." She takes the pack and slings it over her shoulders with an easy, practiced motion. If he didn't just have the thing in his hands a minute ago, he wouldn't know how heavy it was. She's got some muscle on that skinny frame, then, hidden away under her too-loose clothing.

And something else hidden under her coat, too, visible for a brief moment when the lapel is tugged to the side by the weight of her pack. A badge, made out of cheap hammered tin and hooked to the front pocket of her shirt, with a familiar symbol on the front: a bolt of lightning crossed with a rifle, surrounded by three stars.

The Minutemen.

There's been a lot of rumors flying around about the Minutemen over the couple months. Word was they were wiped out down at Quincy, but Deacon knows there were at least a few stragglers that went through Lexington a couple months ago, maybe a dozen-plus, mostly settlers with a few actual soldiers to their name. He remembers watching them pass by on the Switchboard cameras, Glory making jokes about tin soldiers while Tommy bit his lip against the urge to offer help. Ferals chased 'em out eventually, headed northwest to Concord.

Or Sanctuary Hills.

There's been a couple settlement beacons going up out that way; someone's making some out of the ruins at Starlite, a couple of farms accepting new folk again. But it never occurred to Deacon that it could be the Minutemen; they were down to less than ten when they passed out of Lexington, and Jared's boys out of Corvega were hot on their tails. Still, though, there's been movement out that way; a _lot_ of movement, actually, more than just a couple of settlement beacons would normally warrant. Raiders, settlers, provisioners… and synths. One patrol, a little over a month ago, spotted in the hills west of Vault 111 and gone again as quickly as they'd arrived. Deacon got word of it from a drifter who happened to be hunting radstag in the area, and he wondered if maybe, just maybe, they were after-

She tugs on her jacket to resettle it, and then her gaze catches his. It's hard to tell if she realizes he was staring. His sunglasses cover a lot of sins—not to mention, it ain't exactly bright in here—but he's not going to discount her situational awareness, either. Not after she show she's put on so far.

She opens her mouth, then hesitates. He tenses up.

"Hey, is there someplace in town I can cut my hair?"

It's so entirely different from what he thought she might say that he finds himself caught wrong-footed, fumbling for an answer that he already knows. "Yeah, uh, the Super Salon, in the market. Just a little ways past the paper. Can't, uh, can't miss it."

"Thanks," she says, with a particularly sweet smile he mistrusts on principle, and leaves the security office. As she heads into the atrium, she clicks her tongue against her cheek, the sound echoing through the high-ceilinged room. A moment later, there's a short, happy bark, and then a dog bounds around the corner, from where he'd apparently been waiting the whole time. A handsome fellow, a thick clean coat, and big, too; he stands almost to the drifter's hip. She jerks her head toward the city gate and the dog pants happily, bounding ahead of her with his nose to the ground.

Deacon watches him go, frowning a little to himself. That's no raider mutt, beaten half-senseless and bred to kill. That's a proper waster hound: highly intelligent, brutally dangerous, and fiercely loyal. Dogs like that are rarer than hen's teeth and more selective about their companions than any upper-stands snob. The last time Deacon saw someone with a waster hound, he was in the Capitol Wasteland. That one had been following a vault-dweller, too.

_There's no way it's her_ wars in his head with _it has to be her._

Only one way to find out.

He makes himself wait a few minutes, lighting up a cigarette and smoking it fast and restless, before he makes his move. “Hey Danny, is there any chance you could cover the rest of my shift?”

He’s expecting to have to spin some sob story—he knows Danny’s type, and it only has to work once—but Danny just gives him an unexpected grin. “The drifter, huh?”

_Shit,_ Deacon thinks, and glares, because Security-Deacon is the sort to glare at most about everything. “What do you mean?”

“Can’t fault your taste, I guess. She was pretty cute, in a living-rough sort of way.”

It’s the space of a blink before Deacon figures out what he meant. _Oh man. He thinks I want to get in her pants._ Although, reviewing their interaction, it probably isn’t too far-fetched. Deacon stuttered a couple times when he was talking to her, went over her pack more thoroughly than was entirely necessary, and then watched her leave. This cover’s a bit of an asshole, so it’s out of character for him to get a crush on a girl he just met… but Danny’s the romantic type.

_Well, never let it be said that I can’t roll with the punches._

“Dunno what you’re talking about, man,” he says, and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Just gotta take care of some business in the market.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Danny says, and winks. “Yeah, sure, I’ll cover for you. Try and keep it to a long lunch, though, yeah? I gotta eat sometime too.”

“Can do,” Deacon says, and slips off.

###### 

He keeps a couple of changes of clothes in his locker, and the right mix makes him downright invisible when he merges with the crowd of people heading out out for some lunchtime shopping: just another faceless worker trying to get some hot food before he has to go back to the job. He finds a seat at Power Noodles with a clear view of the roadway and bellies up to the bar to order. With that dog and that red hair, she'll be easy to spot. Far easier than trying to hunt her down in the throng.

Sure enough, ten minutes later she comes through, her pack already riding a little lighter on her shoulders. Sold off some of the scav already, then, and coming back to get cleaned up before she started her _real_ business. He finishes the rest of his noodles at a leisurely pace, watching her out of the corner of his eye, then pushes away from the bar and ambles down the road.

Luckily, the Super Salon’s pretty close to Publick Occurrences, and Deacon fetches up against the corner, flips a couple caps to the kid running the front and uses the paper as an excuse to linger. He’s just close enough to overhear John’s running patter, though he has to strain a bit to hear her quieter responses.

“Man, you had some kinda mess back here, but looks like I got the worst of it. You should take better care of it out there, or it might not clean so easy next time. I've got some good powders if you need something for the road, Lord knows fresh water's hard to come by."

"Tell me about it," she grouses, tipping her chair a little further back without prompting so that John can finish rinsing the suds out of the top of her hair. "Do you know how long it's been since I haven't had dirt in my hair?"

"A long time, I bet," John sympathizes. "You're new in town, right? Saw you arguing with ol' Moe down the way earlier. He get you with his baseball crap?"

"Aw, not a fan?" She sounds amused. If he couldn't see her knuckles turning white on the arms of the chair, he'd think she was entirely relaxed, at ease with a stranger's hands on her, but he knows better. For all her apparently friendliness, she's got _don't fucking touch me_ written all over her. "It's fine, I set him straight. You know he didn't even know about the _spectators_? Who doesn't know that about baseball?"

"Ooh, we got an aficionado in the house, huh? Bet Moe loved that." John laughs as he tugs a comb through the damp tangles. "Good, that old bastard could use some shaking up. So what about you, heading anywhere in particular?"

"Oh, to the bar next, that's for sure." They laugh, and then she gestures vaguely, causing the dog, stretched out across the steps, to perk his head up in sudden interest. A single look had him chuffing agreeably and dropping his nose to his paws once more. "Then east, out to the coast."

John clicks his tongue. "That's a long hike, honey. Lots of raiders between here and there."

"Oh, believe me. I know."

From where he's standing behind her, John almost certainly can't see the slow grin that lights up her rawboned face, filled with the savage, anticipatory joy of a starving man before a feast. But something in her tone must trigger his instincts anyway, because he pauses for a moment, uneasy, before clearing his throat and continuing.

"Well, so long as you know, I guess. Anyhow, what can I do for you today? You've got some nice hair here, now that all the dirt and blood's out of it. I can do just about whatever you want."

“Hmm,” she says, more of a throaty hum than an actual response. “I’ve seen some people with it cut like-” She gestures to the sides. “Shaved, here and here. And around the back. You know how to do that?”

John pauses in picking up the scissors. “You, uh, you sure about that? The kind of people usually get that cut, they’re, uh. Not usually the sociable type. If you get my meaning.”

“I’m no raider,” she says, sounding amused, and he relaxes fractionally. “But it’s a good cut for the road. Easier to keep clean, keep it out of my way, won’t get snarls where it hits the collar. Still looks okay when it’s down.”

“Well, you’re not wrong there,” John says doubtfully, starting to gather up the top half of her hair. “Still. You should be careful with it, okay? People can take that the wrong way.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she says, and that same honeyed smoothness is back in her voice, the thing that had poor Danny waving away her apology with a blush. John stands a little taller in response, though he doesn’t seem to notice he’s doing it. _Oh, she’s good._ “I might let it grow back out afterwards, we’ll see. But after getting mirelurk guts tangled at the back that last time...”

“Oh, that’s nasty,” John says. “I can’t blame you a bit.”

Deacon takes that moment to slip away. The longer he hangs around, the more likely it is that she'll notice him. Besides, he heard everything he needed.

The Minutemen are planning on retaking the Castle. 

That's a damned bold move, especially from a woman he's about ninety percent sure woke up in this century less than a month ago. There's still that ten percent of wiggle room: this ain't Sherlock Holmes, and sometimes the clues don't add up the way you think. But she’s not the first patrol heading east, from what he’s heard, just the first that came through here. And if the Minutemen _are_ moving on the Castle, a _smart_ General would come through Diamond City on her way out to the coast, stock up on supplies and maybe some personnel, if she can. He knows for a fact that at least two of the mercs who sit around jawing in the Dugout used to wear the tin. She's probably here for them.

And while it’s possible that she’s not actually the General, just some errand girl or messenger, he’s got to figure that no messenger would have that much working gear on them; they tend to run fast and light. And no errand girl would hide the badge like she's doing. The Minutemen are all about being loud and proud, and _maybe_ it's a reaction to their recent fall from grace, but he doesn't think so. Put together with the weapons and armor she's carrying, and it feels a lot more like she's trying to keep a low profile to avoid being recognized. Which, QED, means she's someone recognizable. Most likely, someone of rank.

As for the other thing, well. Maybe it's not really her, just some stranger that blew in from the west and took a shine to the Minutemen, but seriously, what are the fucking odds? And her coat's plenty baggy, but not quite big enough to hide the outline of the Pip-boy in her left sleeve. She's out of a Vault _somewhere,_ and he's got eyes on 81. And with that synth patrol…

It's her. It has to be her.

Well well well, it never rains but it pours, huh? Dez put the kibosh on his little side project, but that was before the genuine article popped up and started reorganizing the Commonwealth. Not enough left in the way of intact records to figure out what he's dealing with, exactly, but he knows the most important thing: Kellogg took something out of that vault and he left her alive, and that mad dog never leaves anyone behind by choice. And that synth patrol, that means the Institute _wanted_ her awake. Some other sick experiment, maybe, but it’s more likely that they need her for something. And that something is almost certainly the reason they left her alive in the first place.

He can’t help but think that the timing isn’t a coincidence, her coming out of the Vault right around the time that Kellogg showed up in Diamond City. Bold as you please, wandering around the market with a kid in tow, like he was just some single-father merc instead of enemy numero uno to the entire fucking Commonwealth. Deacon wriggled his way into a job here to keep an eye on him, but the old bastard was gone again before he had the chance. With that synth patrol up to the northwest, he can only figure that the Institute let her out deliberately, but then why send Kellogg up to the surface to play house? They had to know he’d get noticed, and assuming she’d make it this far, they had to know she’d track him down eventually.

Unless that’s what they want. Unless they’re using him as _bait._

And if they’re using him as bait, Deacon thinks, warming to this theory even as he works it through, then that means they want her to find them. Which means that he needs to make sure she’s with _them_ when she does. He just needs to figure out the right way to make the approach.

It's tempting to try and gear up in something vaguely Minutemen-ish and follow her east, but he can't forget her assessing gaze on him, the way her eyes had flicked over his face, cataloguing his features. No, if he goes now, he'll just get noticed, and that's the last thing he wants, not when he still needs to take her measure. But assuming she doesn't go down retaking the Castle—and he's gotta assume she won't, if she survived Conrad fucking Kellogg—then she'll be heading to Goodneighbor next. That’s where Valentine was headed when he left on a case a week ago, and she’ll want Valentine’s help going after her son. If she’s worth a damn, that’ll be her next stop.

He'll just have to be there to say hello.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those following along at home, this chapter takes place one day before the beginning of Cry Havoc.

Deacon's new best friend doesn't leave him hanging: it's just over a week later when she comes strolling through Goodneighbor's gates, right the fuck on schedule. Deacon's sitting on the little stone wall in front of Daisy's store when it happens, nursing a bottle of someone's homemade that smells vaguely like paint thinner and listening to the gossip at Daisy's with one ear and KL-E-O's vaguely threatening brand of dickering with the other. Everyone goes quiet, though, when the gate guard whistles the sharp three-note call that means _new face,_ and out of the corner of his eye he sees Finn unfold from his lazy lean and step forward.

Now, Goodneighbor's population is transient on a good day, sure, and any scavver worth their salt is going to make their way here eventually, just to offload their chems—but still, Deacon's got a feeling it's her. The timing's just about right, and besides, everyone heard Radio Freedom come online a few days back. Give her a day or two to get things squared away there, another two to trek back into the city...

"Well, hello there, little lady," Finn says, when the gate creaks open. The grin on his face is wide enough to border on the obnoxious. "Welcome to Goodneighbor."

The general—for the general it is, all geared up and covered in road dirt like she came straight here—gives him a look of flat disbelief, which Deacon rather privately can't help but echo. Nothing about her, from her scarred-up face to the _three_ guns she's got strapped up, exactly screams 'easy target.' His estimate of Finn's intelligence, already perennially hovering approximately at floor-level, starts burrowing its way down into the basement.

"You're new here," Finn continues, chomping on the end of his cigar like something out of a dime-store novel. "So you might not know the rules around these parts."

"Oh, I'm sure you're about to tell me."

_It's the eyes,_ Deacon decides, watching her smile lazily back at Finn's cocky smirk. The smile would look entirely inviting if you could avoid looking into her eyes, which are just about as empty as a burnt-out fusion core—and, he'd bet, twice as likely to explode. It's not… threatening, exactly. More like a tiger who was settling down for a nap, and now has to decide whether or not it's worth the effort to get up and chase the rabbit that's cheerfully flaunting itself under her nose.

"Well, you know, place like this, it ain't too safe," the rabbit drawls, still under the mistaken impression that it's the predator here. "You can't go walking around without insurance."

"Is that so?" Deacon imagines the tiger licking its chops. "Unfortunately, I think I'm going to have to decline."

"That so?"

"Not really in the market," she says mildly. "Only room in my budget is 'keep dumb assholes away from me' insurance, and that doesn't seem to be what you're offering."

"Now, don't be like that," Finn says, grinning now. "I think you're going to like what I have on offer."

Dumb bastard doesn't seem to notice the way her right hand drops to her side, only a few scant inches from the holster on her thigh. Shotgun, interesting choice. At this range either would work, probably, but the pistol would be a faster draw. Then again, the shotgun will probably make more of a mess. She strikes him as the sort of woman who likes to make a statement.

"That so?" she echoes. The tiger gathers itself to pounce. "Do tell."

"Well, it's like this," Finn says, and flicks away the end of his cigar. "It's the kinda offer you can't refuse, see? You hand over everything you got in them pockets, or 'accidents' start happenin' to ya." He straightens up, throwing his shoulders back so she can see the size of him. "Big, bloody accidents."

The reflected torchlight flickers across her sardonic smile. Her hand lands on the butt of her shotgun. Her fingers close-

-and then Hancock intervenes.

Sort of like a hawk swooping down out of the sky, Deacon thinks whimsically. The tiger in the general's eyes curls up and settles down, with only the swishing metaphorical tip of its metaphorical tail to show how close it came to mayhem.

It's too bad Deacon lost bet with himself as to just how badly she was going to fuck up Finn's world—his money was on a combination of 'fatal' and 'needlessly dramatic'—but he has to say, Hancock's intervention almost makes up for it. The good mayor's been flexing his muscles a bit more often recently, making himself visible and taking on chores he used to leave to Fahrenheit, but this? That's bold, even for Hancock. Finn was one of the originals, same as Hancock himself, and pressuring a newcomer is a damn flimsy pretext to take the guy out.

Which means that Hancock was making an example out of him.

The real question is _why._ It can't just be about the latest round of Institute rumors, right? This isn't the first time that kind of fear has blown through Goodneighbor and it won't be the last, and usually Hancock doesn't bestir himself to do much of anything about it, except the occasional pretty speech on his balcony. Some sort of internal politicking, maybe? If so, it's definitely something to keep an eye on. They've got too many operations running through Goodneighbor, most of them under Hancock's semi-informed blanket of approval, to risk a challenge to the status quo.

Well. Any kind of _external_ challenge. Deacon's all for messing up the status quo himself—but then, _he_ knows what he's doing.

The general hasn't moved from her position near the gate, except to drop her hand away from the weapon and fold her arms across her chest. Glancing behind her, Deacon realizes that he can't see her waster hound anywhere near. Left him waiting around the corner, like she did at Diamond City? Except the gate's already closed behind her, and he can't picture her leaving one of hers to fend for itself.

"You alright there, sister?"

"Oh, I'm always alright." The smile that she finds for Hancock is considerably warmer than the bared-teeth grimace she had for Finn; for one thing, it actually reaches her eyes. "But thanks for the assist."

"Good, good," Hancock nods. "Now, don't let this incident taint your view of our little community. Goodneighbor's of the people, for the people, you feel me? Everybody's welcome."

"My kinda place," she says, with no sarcasm that Deacon can detect, and thrusts out one gloved hand to shake. "I'm Sole."

_Sole, huh?_ See, now, that's interesting, because for the last week, Deacon couldn't find a single goddamn person who could put a name to the face—and he definitely tried. He thought maybe she was keeping it on the down-low, using her fancy new title to get by, but that doesn't seem to be the case. So maybe it wasn't so much that people _couldn't_ tell him her name, as _wouldn't._ Which means that she's got a way of buying loyalty from even hardened wasteland homesteaders. Probably, Deacon has to admit, her charming little habit of leaving heaps of raider bodies in her wake wherever she goes.

Maybe there's something to her little Minutemen crusade, after all.

"Hancock," the mayor says, taking her hand after only a second's hesitation—not a lot of people who'd offer their hands to a ghoul, especially one that just killed a man in front of them. They shake firmly. "I'm the leader of this humble establishment. Good to have you; we're always happy to have people who can handle themselves."

Normally this little welcome speech ends with a wink and a "so long as you remember who's in charge around here." (Deacon would know; he's gotten the newcomer spiel at least three times in the last two years. It doesn't change much.) But not this time. No, Hancock read her like a book and shifted gears with barely more than a flick of his black eyes, right into the kind of terse jocularity that seems to be the lingua franca of mercs everywhere. Just goes to show, even in a semi-permanent chem haze, the good mayor's still leagues sharper than most people give him credit for.

Not a mistake Deacon ever intends to perpetuate.

"Nice to meetcha." Sole holds the handshake just a half-second longer than good manners demand, then drops her hand back to her side. "Just passin' through, though. I'm looking for someone, heard this was the place to go."

Hancock didn't get this far without a keen sense of opportunity, especially when it's right under his (hah!) nose. "Could be I could help you with that," he says, rubbing his fingers together. "Anyone in particular?"

She eyes him with some amusement. "For a fee?"

Hancock grins. "Well, since you're new, let's call this one on the house."

There's a long pause where Sole just looks at him—sizing him up, considering the angles. Hancock, with a scavver's instincts and a long familiarity with people staring at him, just waits patiently for her to come to her conclusions.

Finally she says, "Nick Valentine. Detective from Diamond City. He been through here recently?"

"Nicky?" Hancock says, with real surprise. "Hell, yeah. Woulda been 'bout… two, three weeks back, I think. Right, Fahr?"

"Right," drawls Fahrenheit, from KL-E-O's doorway. Sole's gaze flicks to her and then back, so quick Deacon wouldn't have seen if it he wasn't watching for it. For a woman who wears thirty-plus pounds of polished steel, Fahrenheit's got a knack for staying in the background until it's way too late. "He talked to Irma, up at the Memory Den."

"There you go." Hancock turns back to Sole, all smiles. "Irma, up at the Memory Den. And seems as I recall he had a bit of chat with our Daisy, too. I was you, I'd start there."

"Yeah," Sole says, and smiles back. "Thanks. I might do just that."

###### 

The Memory Den's usually one of the first stops on his rounds whenever he gets a new face, so Irma doesn't react when he comes in through the side door and brushes past her down to Amari's lab. The good doctor is working with her back to the door when he thumps down the steps, and he raps shave-and-a-haircut on the doorframe, slouches aggressively against it with his arms crossed and waits for her to finish with whatever she's fiddling with.

"Deacon!" she exclaims, when she finally turns around. "I was not expecting you. Is there something wrong?"

"Maybe something right." She raises her brows in polite inquiry. "There's someone coming in, someone new. She has business with Irma, so she might not take on as a client, but if she does-"

"I know, cache the imprint for later use." Amari rolls her eyes. "I am not new to this, you know."

"No," Deacon says. "Don't cache it. Stream it to my chair and then wipe it from the drive."

_Now_ she goes still. He braces himself—this was always going to be the sticking point with his hastily-concocted plan—and she doesn't disappoint, puffing herself up with instantaneous outrage. "Deacon, that is- That is a _gross_ invasion of privacy-"

"Kinda what I do, Doc," he cuts her off, but gently. He appreciates her strong moral backbone, in theory; it's what drives her to give so much of herself to the cause. But sometimes it can be inconvenient. "Don't get squeamish on me now."

"I don't see how protecting my patients' welfare qualifies as _squeamishness,_ for God's sake," Amari snaps back. "It's an unacceptable breath of my contractual ethics-"

"It's about Kellogg."

She goes ashen at the name, and Deacon feels the faintest twinge of guilt. Damn near everyone in the Railroad has cause to hate Kellogg, but even he can admit that Amari has more than most. It's probably unfair to play on her fear of the man, but it's not as if isn't _true,_ after all. Leverage works best when it's real.

"He's back?"

"Not sure yet," Deacon lies, and doesn't miss the way her shoulders sag, very slightly, in relief. "But the new girl witnessed one of his ops, and lived to tell the tale. I need to see it for myself."

"Oh, good lord," Amari says, faintly. "You want me to use a traumatic memory for her first session? Do you know what that can do for the psyche?"

He thinks of his first time in the pod. The way he'd come up swinging after, the smell of heavy copper still thick in his nose, crackling flames loud in his ears.

They didn't keep his imprint, either.

"Yes, actually," he says, very dry. Amari winces at the reminder, and he presses his advantage. "She lost her husband in the attack. She's going to want to see him again; it'll be cake to track onto the right pathways."

"Do not presume to tell me how to do my job!" she snaps, but she's weakening, and he knows it. Some people wear their vulnerabilities out in the open, just waiting for anyone to exploit them. Deacon considers it his duty to make sure he gets in his exploitation first. "I suppose you have performed extensive surveillance," she says, after a moment. "Can you promise me this will not further traumatize the girl?"

"I promise, Doc," he says, perfectly honest for the first time since he got here. He had her measure from the first moment she met his gaze and tried to figure out what lie to sell. People like her don't get broken by the reminders of why they're fighting; they just get focused. "She'll be fine. She's the tough sort."

"Your faith is touching." But then Amari sighs and turns away, rubbing a hand over the back of her neck. "Fine. But you need to be in position before we begin. Redirecting the feed will be difficult enough without trying to establish a second connection simultaneously." Her mouth twists down in an unfriendly smile when she catches his disbelieving look. "I will not enter your memory, Deacon. But this is not the same as watching a film on the television. You _must_ be connected."

It gives him pause, as nothing else had. In the pod he's completely helpless, with no awareness of the outside world at all. He won't be able to defend himself—and more importantly, he won't be able to listen in on Sole's conversation with Irma. What if she doesn't even get in the pod? This place has more recording devices than an entire FBI satellite office, of course, but Deacon's always preferred the personal touch.

_Worth it,_ he decides, after a moment. If he's anywhere close to right, they can't risk keeping a copy of her imprint on file where anyone could get to it, and she has too many secrets in that head of hers for him to pass up an opportunity to pry a few loose. If it goes sideways… Well, at least he tried.

"Fine," he tells Amari, who presses her mouth into a thin bloodless line but nods, short and sharp. "But you better get the hookup ready, because she's probably not too far behind me."

###### 

Amari brings him up right after Sole, but Deacon lies still in the pod, eyes closed, listening to her and the doc moving around, conversing in low murmurs. Finally Irma says, loud enough that Deacon can hear it even through the glass, "Good luck, honey. I hope you find Nick. That ole rascal's your best bed for finding your baby."

"I appreciate the help." Sole's voice comes closer, moving towards the door. "I'll make sure to tell Valentine about your assistance, so he can make sure to thank you in person."

"Oh, you," Irma says, in a tone Deacon recognizes well enough to guess that she's probably blushing artfully right about now. "You're almost as bad as he is."

"I'll take that as a compliment, ma'am."

The quiet rap of her bootheels, just barely audible to his straining ears, turn and starts heading towards his pod… only to pause, a second later. Deacon's pulse leaps into his throat. Did she-

"You take care, now."

"You too, honey."

The footsteps resume, pacing away towards the door, and Deacon lets out a long, slow breath. The jingle of the front door bell is loud in the sudden silence, and he waits for a slow five-count to make sure she's not coming back before he hits the release hatch on the pod.

Irma's glare is ready and waiting for him when he climbs out. "And just what the Sam Hill do you think you're doing in there?"

"Knitting," Deacon replies promptly. "I'm working on a new design, I think it's really going to take off with the suburban set-"

"Be quiet," Amari orders, and lays her hand on Irma's elbow. "It was necessary," she assures the proprietress, who glares at him some more and then turns away with a huff. "Did you at least find what you were looking for in there?"

"Oh, I'd say I got a pretty good start." As well as a fun new phobia that's going to linger for a while, he's pretty damn sure. He's not normally all that squirrelly when it comes to tight spaces, but there was just something about it, going from the cryo pod into the memory pod, that felt a little too much like waking up into your own nightmare. Even if it hadn't been his, originally. "She say where she's heading next?"

"She asked me if there was anyone I'd trust as a hired gun," Irma says haughtily, from where she's settling back into her usual indolent lounge on the chaise. "I sent her down to the Third Rail."

Deacon doesn't bother to hide his grimace of distaste. "MacCready? You sent one of ours after that Gunner reject?"

"I had no idea you had business with her, did I? Besides, he left the Gunners of his own accord, and he hasn't bothered anyone here. You know the rules. You got a problem with his old crew, you keep it outside the gates. Goodneighbor's-"

"-for everyone, yeah, I know. I got treated to Hancock's spiel out front earlier."

"Daisy vouched for him." Irma shrugs. "Wouldn't send work his way otherwise, but you know Daisy. She doesn't take to people often."

Well, at least no one can fault MacCready's aim, just his attitude. And the little twerp's too much of a coward to shoot her in the back and steal her caps, which is more than he can say for a lot of the freelancers around here. Plus, as much as Deacon hates to admit it, MacCready's claim that he left the Gunners on his own is probably true. It's the only way he'd made it out with his skin intact. Sort of like getting work enough to buy passage out of the Commonwealth is the only way he's going to _keep_ it intact. Sole will probably be a dream come true for him.

"I'm sure he's a peach." File that one under _problems that aren't his problems._ "So she's looking to go after Valentine now, huh?"

"Good thing someone is," Irma says stoutly. She's always had a soft spot for the canny old synth. "You going to stop her?"

"Moi?" He presses a hand to his chest, all mock offense. "Ma'am, I would never."

Her glare only intensifies.

"Anyway, I have some things to take care of." He looks to Amari. "Send a runner if she comes back. She's a person of interest until I say otherwise, understood?"

Amari presses her lips together, but in the end she gives in with nothing more than a single short nod. "Understood."

###### 

Outside, Deacon takes a deep breath of the cold winter air, ripe with urine and rotting garbage and acrid with the stink of fresh-cooked chems. It tastes better than it has any right to, and idly, he finds himself wondering if that's how it was for her, when she walked out a few minutes earlier. Like the world just opened up, out from under the Den's swooping, shadowed ceilings; like there's nothing in front of you but the open road. Deacon likes being on the move as much as the next guy, but even he's gotta admit that it's much more likely to be a case of transference, from sharing her memory. She _really_ hated being stuck in that pod.

_Claustrophobia,_ he adds, almost absently, to his mental file—but that's not really what has his attention at the moment.

He knows, now, what the Institute took from that vault.

Revenge is a good angle to use on pretty much any potential recruit; there isn't a soul in the 'wealth that hasn't lost someone or something to the Institute, even if it's just their own peace of mind. But for most people, the fires of vengeance burn hot and fast, and fizzle out just as quick. Deacon's always favored simpler methods. Hope _,_ for example, has a way of settling into your bones, keeping you moving even when you think you can't take another step further. Deacon will take hope over vengeance, any day of the week.

Right now, she won't be sure if her kid's still alive… but she won't be sure he _isn't,_ either. But the fact that she came looking for Valentine is a pretty good sign that she thinks there's at least a chance he's still out there somewhere, and he's still got the afterburn of her icy determination lingering at the back of his throat to tell him that she's not the type to give up easy. Once she gets Valentine back, he'll be able to confirm for her that Kellogg _was_ in Diamond City right after she was released, and he _did_ have a kid with him, albeit with a little extra mileage. The solution then will be obvious: get Kellogg, and she gets her kid back. Simple.

It's a good story, if missing a couple of pieces. Kellogg cracked that vault, sure, but that was damn near sixty years ago, not ten. Unless the Institute figured out some cryo tech of their own—and he'd be the first one to hear about it if they did—then there's no way that's her spawn. A grandkid, at best, but it's a lot more likely that the Institute just picked some stray kid with the right look and dropped him off with their favorite killer. Her son was probably grist for the mill a long time ago.

But the thing is, _she_ doesn't know that. She'll pursue Kellogg with all the incredible wrath of a mother separated from her child, and if Deacon's theory is correct, then he'll be waiting somewhere fortified so he can bring her in by force. Maybe with instructions to drop a couple vague hints, just in case she manages to fuck the odds and kill him first, but they'll probably load him up with backup, to keep that from happening. Maybe even a courser or two, the ones that can be trusted to carry out a non-lethal retrieval mission. Kellogg's not the muscle on this op. He's the goddamn bait.

So there's his answer, then. Make his move too early, and she'll be on her guard, thinking he's part of the conspiracy. Too late, and then the Institute will have her, and fuck knows what their plans are for her then. But there's a nice little window of opportunity in the middle, where she'll know that Kellogg is the one she needs but won't know how to get at him, and she'll be all kinds of grateful for a little bit of assistance from her new friends in the Railroad.

And that's when he'll pounce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now you know why I call it the "goddamnit, Deacon" fic.


End file.
